You Have His Heart
by ecrichard
Summary: It's John, not Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's. What lengths will John have to go to in order to save Sherlock's life?
1. Chapter 1

"Mrs. Hudson has been shot."

It didn't take much more than that to get him racing back to the flat. The voice on the other end of the call explained that she was in critical condition and she was on her way to hospital. He had to get her things and meet her there. It would be dreadful if she woke up all alone.

His muscles ached after he slammed the door on Sherlock. It wasn't like him to be so cavalier about someone he presumably cared about. There was something wrong with him and there wasn't time to hash it out. Mrs. Hudson needed him at her side whether Sherlock decided to come or not.

As he raced down the hallway towards the entrance, John tripped on a soda bottle that had fallen from the bin. It was a spectacular fall with arms flailing and his entire body thudding on the ground. He tried to breathe but the wind with knocked out of him. This was not what he needed.

"Shit," he muttered as he pulled himself up. He felt the side of his head and the side of his hand had bits of blood dripping down. Of course he'd cut himself. What else could go wrong?

As badly as Mrs. Hudson needed him, she'd be much more frightened if he showed with an open wound. He was at a hospital—a bandage wouldn't take long to find. He ducked into the closest empty room and began to rummage through the drawers. There were cotton balls and pads of paper and finally, after what felt like an eternity, there were bandages.

He ripped open two and slapped them on the side of his head until the bleeding seemed to slow to a dull roar. There'd be time for proper medical procedure later.

As he left the room, he heard another door open. The area of the hospital was supposed to be empty—that was the reason they had been in there in the first place. The only person that was around was…

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Sherlock, who had mere moments ago proclaimed he was far too busy to help his dying friend, was now briskly walking down the hall like he was late for a meeting.

Every fiber in his being told him to chase after Sherlock and tell him off. Someone had to explain to Sherlock that it wasn't acceptable to simply do whatever you pleased every moment of the day. But he stopped himself from shouting out—something told that he should follow Sherlock. There was something odd happening and he needed to figure out what that was and quickly.

John stayed far behind Sherlock as he walked the length of the hospital and headed towards the stairwell. It was as he reached for the handle to the stairwell that Sherlock finally looked around to see if anyone was around. John hardly had an instant to hide behind an open door.

On tip toes he raced behind him and got in the stairwell, positive it would only be a matter of seconds before he was discovered. He gently walked up the metal stairs all while clinging close to the railing. He felt ridiculous but his gut told him that he to continue. Something important was at the end of the journey.

It was at the third floor that he felt the rope wrap around his throat.

The yank of it nearly toppled him to the floor but the attacker kindly pushed John against the railing where he grabbed on for dear life. The brittle strands of the rope dug into his skin and, bit by bit, cut of his airway. He could feel his body grow weaker by the second.

"Sherlock!" he groaned but his voice was far too slight and Sherlock was two flights away.

Just as he was about to pass out he was shoved against the wall. The attacker released the rope but simply pressed a gun against the side of his head. "Let's go," the man said.

"Where?" John asked, his voice hoarse and croaky.

The man didn't answer. He placed a phone to his ear and muttered, "Got the doctor."

He was shoved down the rest of the stairs and out the door that had just come through. Sherlock didn't know he was here, no one did, and now he was going to die in the middle of a hospital.

"Get in the elevator," the man said as he pressed the gun more deeply into John's head.

He didn't argue. There was no use. The man had another gun in his holster and other men in the building that he was communicating with. John's only hope was for Sherlock to somehow intuit that he was in danger and that was wishful thinking, even with Sherlock involved.

With his hands up in surrender, John walked into the elevator. Immediately the man pressed for the highest floor. That appeared to be where Sherlock was headed. Maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all. Maybe it wasn't a lost cause.

John's heart dropped the moment the doors opened. All he saw was the long black coat and the shimmer of black shoes under the fluorescent lights. Sherlock was feet from the rooftop access door. He was unconscious but didn't appear beaten.

"What did you do to him?" John asked.

The man pushed him ahead. "Shut up."

"Is he alive?" John asked.

The man smacked John in the back of the head with the gun. "He's fine. Keeping walking."

He was pink. He was breathing. There wasn't any blood. It was a good sign. John rubbed the back of his head as they walked through the rooftop doors. The bright light of morning attacked his senses.

John stepped out onto the roof with cautious steps. Why had Sherlock been so keen to get up here? What was happening that was so important as to hold John hostage and bring him to the roof at gunpoint.

"John…" a voice said in the distance.

He felt his whole body tense as the man spoke.

"So nice to see you again."

Those dead eyes. That snarling smile.

"Why?" John asked.

"Why?"

"Yes," he said as the anxiety began to crescendo. "Why are you doing this?"

"And what am I doing?"

"You knocked him unconscious," John said.

"Oh Sherlock," he said. "He'll be fine. Ten minutes tops. I just needed to distract him a bit—he's a hard man to sidetrack."

"Sidetrack?"

He walked closer to John and came in close, too close. "I wanted you. I settle for Sherlock but I want you."

"I don't have anything you want."

Moriarty snarled at the thought. "Yes you do."

John held his tongue.

Moriarty tapped his finger against John's chest. "You have his heart."

* * *

**This isn't going to be a long story but I wanted to split it up so it gets updated more often! **

**What does Moriarty have in mind? What will John do to save Sherlock's life?**


	2. Chapter 2

He felt himself begin to hyperventilate as Moriarty gestured towards his guard. Once before he'd been at the hands of Moriarty's vengeance and it had resulted in nearly dying in an explosion. For months he had nightmares of being attacked and forced to watch as bombs were strapped to his chest.

Something cold and plastic was stuck in his ear.

"You did so well last time," Moriarty said. "You're a good little parrot."

There was a click and a buzz as the earpiece turned on.

"You will do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

He stood still and looked straight ahead, right through Moriarty.

"I said do you understand?"

Resolute. Brave. Still calm. It took everything in him to not scream in fright.

"Don't be difficult, John. It doesn't suit you." Moriarty gestured at one of the men who soundly punched John in the stomach. A wave of nausea and pain took over and he fell to his knees.

"Do you understand now?"

John nodded. "I do."

"Splendid. Now get up."

He could hardly see straight as he forced himself to his feet. The wind buzzed around them both and whistled through the earpiece. He forced himself not to remember the last time he'd been Moriarty's puppet. The look on Sherlock's face when they met at the pool still haunted him.

"They've taken him outside about a block away. You will call him and speak with him. He is not allowed back in the building."

"Why?" John said as he grunted through the gnawing pain.

Moriarty cocked his head. "Doesn't matter," he said. "We will kill him if he comes inside."

John's face fell slack. "No," he whimpered.

Moriarty came up close and placed a finger to John's head. "Think, Johnny boy. Think. Can't have him coming up here and ruining our little plan, now can we?"

Sherlock was an entity all his own. Other people's desires and wishes for him were secondary to the task at hand. If he wanted to come in the building, he would no matter what he was told.

"I do this," John said, "and then what?"

Moriarty waved his hand away. "We'll kill you, of course."

"What?" He struggled to stay upright.

"Can't have any loose ends. Sherlock will be done. You'll be gone. All will be right. You have to understand. It's for the best."

"No," he said. "I won't."

"Oh but you will," Moriarty said. "It's you or him."

He gripped his fist tight until he felt the bones in his fingers bend against the pressure. There was no escape. There was nowhere to run.

Moriarty walked away and placed a finger to his ear. He shouted into the receiver incomprehensible tirades that crackled in the air. John stood and shut his eyes and tried to think like Sherlock—there was always a solution. Impossible was never the answer.

Just think, John.

Moriarty shoved his phone in his pocket and strode back to John with a smile on his face. "He's a block away on a park bench. He's waking up now."

He could only imagine how confused Sherlock would be when he woke.

"Call him," Moriarty said.

John didn't move.

"Must you be so difficult?" Moriarty said as he beckoned one of his men over. With his large calloused hand the man grabbed John by the throat and squeezed. He could feel his throat slowly bend and collapse. It was excruciating.

It would be so simple to let them kill him there. Sherlock would find a way out on his own and he'd never need a hear a nasty word from Moriarty. Whatever he was going to have to say would be cruel and twisted and it would be straight from John's mouth.

He didn't put up a fight.

Moriarty stood to the side with his arms crossed and watched the theater unfold. John went limp and let gravity take over. Bit by bit he felt the lack of oxygen rob him of his senses. The world around him began to fade and dim.

And then he was on the ground.

The man stepped back and flexed his fingers. They'd let John live.

He lay on the ragged concrete and forced air into his compromised windpipe. It burned to breathe. An arm pulled him up to his feet as he struggled to stay conscious. A hand went into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. It was shoved into his hand.

"Call him."

John bowed his head. He had no choice.

"Just kill me," he said. "Don't make me do this."

Moriarty shook his head. "This is much more fun."

He shut his eyes to gain one last moment of composure. "He'll stop you," John said.

"I doubt that," Moriarty said with a sneer.

John clicked on Sherlock's name and the phone began to ring. His heart beat in his ears and he looked out towards the street to see if he could see Sherlock coming back to the hospital.

It only took two rings for Sherlock to answer.

"John? Where are you?" He was breathing hard into the receiver. It was clear he was walking quickly or even running to get back.

He waited for the earpiece to turn on and he didn't dare speak.

"John? Are you all right?"

The earpiece clicked on.

_I'm sorry Sherlock._

He mindlessly repeated the words that Moriarty hissed in his ear. If he let himself process what he was saying it would destroy him.

"I'm fine."

"Good," Sherlock said. "I'm coming back to the hospital. Are you still there?"

"Don't come back."

"Sorry?"

John sighed. "Stay where you are. Don't come back."

"John, I'm coming back. He's there. He drugged me. I need to speak with him."

He could see Sherlock running up the block towards the hospital. His movements were awkward and it was clear that the drug was still in his system.

"That's not necessary."

He saw Sherlock slow from his sprint and begin to walk. "What are you talking about?"

"It's over. You've lost."

Sherlock stopped where he stood and looked all around. He looked so utterly disoriented. "Lost what?"

"The game. You've lost it all."

"Why are you talking like this? Are they putting you up to this?"

John held his breath and looked back towards Moriarty. He didn't want to continue. The pain in Sherlock's voice pierced his heart. "You should have seen it coming. So ignorant."

Sherlock continued to walk towards the hospital. John didn't want to see him. He didn't want to see his face as this happened. It was bad enough to hear him.

"John—where are you? Let me help you."

_Please. Please help me_.

"Stay where you are."

Sherlock looked up all around him. It was as he looked up at the roof that his whole body language changed. "What—what are you doing?"

"It's all been a lie."

"A lie? What are you talking about?"

John took a deep breath as Moriarty spoke the next sentence. It hurt too much to say it.

He couldn't do it.

He couldn't tell Sherlock that it meant nothing. He couldn't tell him that their entire friendship was a lie.

It would kill him.


	3. Chapter 3

John's voice wavered and shook as he spoke. "You were wrong."

"Impossible," Sherlock said.

"Distracted. A lonely man distracted by a new toy. It was so simple. You were so desperate for companionship you didn't think twice."

"No," Sherlock said. "You're lying."

John took a deep breath as Moriarty's voice echoed in his mind. "Sentiment, Sherlock. It makes people stupid."

"I'm coming up there. You stay where you are." Sherlock began to walk towards the building. He wasn't convinced.

"I've been working with him. With Moriarty."

Sherlock kept walking. _Stop_, John pleaded.

"You're not. I know you're not," Sherlock said.

"Didn't you think it odd. A soldier, a doctor showing up at your doorstep? A man who was able to drop it all and follow you around from case to case? To meticulously catalog every detail for the world to see. Why would someone do that?"

Sherlock stopped walking and looked back up towards the roof.

_See through this_. _Know that this isn't me._

"You wanted to come. You wanted the adventure."

"Simple-minded. Think about it, Sherlock. How many friends have you even had?"

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "Stay where you are," he said but his ferocity had softened. Words, even to Sherlock, meant something.

"It was only a matter of time."

"Matter of time before what?" Sherlock asked.

"Before I came back to Moriarty. You made it so easy to manipulate you. You grew so attached and now it's over."

Bit by bit John could see Sherlock's whole body seem to lose the rigidity that had always provided such comfort in times of danger. He didn't say anything. He just stood there.

"Why?"

_No. Don't listen to me. Damn it, Sherlock. Use your mind_.

"It's all a game. Sherlock Holmes is always playing and now he didn't notice the other side has been cheating. He so craved validation that he let a stranger into his home. What was it that you said people normally reacted to you? Didn't you think it odd that you suddenly had an adoring fan?"

_I did care. Please, believe me._

"This is ridiculous. John, speak to me," Sherlock said.

_I wish I could._

"It's over. You were wrong. You've been wrong about it all. Brillant detective fooled by his flatmate—a man whom you called stupid on numerous occasions. Not so stupid now?"

"You know that wasn't what I meant," Sherlock said.

_Don't do this. Stay skeptical._

"You should have seen it. Why would I stay around? What was I gaining?"

_Enough. Enough of this_.

He could hear the fear in Sherlock's voice. It took everything in John's body to not start crying. "I know this isn't you."

_It's not_.

"You're done, Sherlock."

"Let me speak to him," Sherlock said. "Let me speak to Moriarty."

There was silence in the ear piece.

"John?"

He didn't dare say a word.

"Speak to me," Sherlock pleaded. There was such desperation in his voice.

And then he was back. And he was angry. "John Watson is no more. When they find my body, you'll be blamed."

_Jesus. No._

"Your body? What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked.

"There will be talk…people will question what happened and you will be at the center of it. The meal for the spider."

Sherlock paced where he stood. John could hear him start to hyperventilate as he walked. He wanted so badly to end the call. He couldn't do it anymore. It hurt too much.

"Don't. Don't do this," Sherlock pleaded.

John swallowed the growing knot in his chest.

"You were brilliant out there. I've never had someone quite like you," Sherlock said.

Moriarty was silent. He was making John listen to it all. Every aching detail.

"I saw you that first meeting. You were broken. The war had damaged you and I fixed it. We worked together. That meant something, did it not?"

John looked back to where the men stood. He pleaded with his eyes to just end it all. He couldn't take another second of this.

"I apologize. John, I'm sorry. My behavior—maybe it was out of line at times but you know that it wasn't malicious. That was just the way it was. I wanted the best work done and it was done. But if I hurt you…" His voice trailed off.

_Please. Let me talk. Let me tell him what's happening_.

"John, speak to me," Sherlock said.

John couldn't hold back the tears as he spoke. "It was a charade. A game played against a pathetic opponent."

Sherlock placed the phone at his side and gazed up at the roof. He looked ruined even from that distance. No matter how badly he would try to reason away what John was saying, there was a core of truth. That was what would resonate long after today.

He brought it back to his face. "Let me see you. Let me see your face."

John looked back at Moriarty. Would he let him come up? _Please. Please do it._

"I want you to look me in the eyes as you say this. No more cowardice," Sherlock said.

Moriarty smiled and nodded.

"Yes," John said as a wave of relief washed over him, "you come up. Moriarty's men will meet you at the lobby. Don't be stupid."

He wouldn't be able to hide from Sherlock when they met face to face. Sherlock had to know the lies. He had to know that this wasn't the truth. He had to know that, before one of them was killed, that their friendship was real.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock disappeared from view and immediately John felt the gun pressed back against his head. He hardly had the strength to be alarmed any more.

"This isn't over," Moriarty said.

"I know," John said.

"I will not be speaking to him. He will not see me."

John sighed. "Will anyone be here?"

Moriarty shook his head. "Just you my dear doctor."

Suddenly having Sherlock come up didn't seem like such a good idea. This was a man who could decipher where you attended elementary school from the way you tied your shoes. He would insist on doing something heroically idiotic in attempt to save them.

"What if he does something? What if he tries to stop you?"

The gun dug into his skull. "Then I'll kill him. It's really not that complicated."

He had no plan. There was no way to do both. Moriarty wasn't just some ignorant criminal with no plan but to blow things up. He was a genius in his own right. Simple bits of trickery were not going to succeed.

"I see," John said quietly.

The earpiece clicked back on as the door to the roof snapped open. At first he just saw the swish of his jacket in the brisk wind. That was accompanied by two burly guards dragging Sherlock towards the middle of the rooftop. He had regained his composure in the trip upstairs.

John took his place as per Moriarty's orders. He threw his shoulders back and let his soldier training muscle memory take over. Stand straight, show no emotion, be strong in ever movement. That would be the only way to survive this.

"Morning, Sherlock."

The guards released Sherlock and he shook away the remnants of their grip. He didn't say a word as he stood and examined. John had never been the subject of a Sherlock deduction and immediately he felt oddly exposed. Every minute adjustment to his stance would speak volumes.

"Is this enough proof?"

Sherlock looked straight into John's eyes. "Why?"

"No longer relevant. You've had your fun. Now you may leave."

Sherlock took a stride towards John until they were about five feet apart. As hard as he tried to hold it together, John could feel his lip beginning to quiver.

"If you were part of Moriarty's team, as it were, why now? Why have you waited until this point?" Sherlock asked.

"Maximum damage. It was through me that you got so popular. You needed me to seem palatable to the public. It was necessary to get you exposure."

"Exposure," Sherlock said. "And now the plan is discredit me?"

"More than that." John gulped. He knew what came next.

Sherlock sneered. "And what is that?"

"Framed for murder."

Sherlock's smile fell. "What?"

"Killed your flatmate. Oh no one is going to like that."

"John," Sherlock said, "speak to me."

"I am speaking to you."

He shook his head. "The real you."

_I'm still here._ "You have a decision, Sherlock."

"What?" he asked. "What decision?"

John felt his stomach ache as the words came out of his mouth. "Me or you."

The words hung and in the air and strangled them. Even as Moriarty spoke, John couldn't form the sentence. As he looked at Sherlock, he knew that, no matter what John said, that they were still connected. He could see the silent plans forming between the two of them as Sherlock looked at him with heartbroken eyes.

"The story is already emailed to the _Post_."

Sherlock briefly took his eyes off of John and readjusted his entire posture. "Story?" John had never heard Sherlock sound defeated. There was a lost exhausted quality to his voice that fizzled and fell to the ground the minute he spoke.

"That you're a fraud. Swindled the city out of thousands of pounds. Arranged crimes so that you could solve them."

John pleaded with Sherlock to figure something out. He could hardly stand any longer. But it was clear that Sherlock was blindsided and left without any resources. He looked just as lost.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said.

"Every game ends, Sherlock."

He nodded. "I understand. And if I die, what happens to John—I mean you."

John's face fell. "No," he muttered in his own voice.

Sherlock blinked back a tear. "What happens?"

"Nothing happens to me. I'm free."

Sherlock began to button his jacket but his hands were shaking. "What do you need me to do?"

Moriarty screamed in John's head but he couldn't hear him. His own voices were shouting much louder. This could not be happening. He was not going to let Sherlock sacrifice himself. This was not how this was supposed to end.


	5. Chapter 5

There they stood, motionless, while the wind whipped around them. Moriarty spoke with such glee. It only served to dig the knife deeper into his heart.

"I need you to jump."

Sherlock's face fell. "Jump?"

John blinked back the tears. "Or I will."

"No," Sherlock said, "you will not."

Sherlock headed towards the edge. John felt his legs turn to rubber as his only friend strode towards his own death. He wanted to cry out for him to stop but he didn't dare. Just as he got towards the edge, Sherlock took a sharp turn and headed towards the middle of the roof.

"Where are you?" he announced.

John's entire body tensed. He knew exactly where Moriarty's men were and they were within shooting range.

"Show your face," Sherlock shouted.

"You may only speak with me."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not sufficient. Come out."

"You're running out of time, Sherlock. Make your decision."

"I have," Sherlock said, "but I want to see you first."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Without even a second thought Sherlock had volunteered himself. John wanted to believe that he would do the same.

There was an interminable silence that settled over the two of them. Moriarty didn't speak. John just stood in front of Sherlock and pleaded with every muscle in his body for him to reconsider. John knew that he was expendable, that there were plenty of doctors in the world but there was only one man like Sherlock Holmes.

The silence escalated to a high-pitched bit of feedback that sent John to his knees. Behind his heard footsteps.

"If you insist," Moriarty said. "I can't resist playing with my food before I eat it."

John skittered to the side, fully aware that the gun from the guards was still pointed at his back.

"Why the roof? Why the theatrics? Doesn't become you," Sherlock said.

Moriarty tugged at the lapels of his coat and began to circle Sherlock like a vulture. "Thought I should sex it up for the grand finale. It'll make a much better story."

Sherlock cocked his head. "You understand that the police are on their way."

Moriarty didn't blink. "No they're not."

"Yes they are."

"You think I'm not monitoring the scanners? That I don't have a bug in your phone? Oh stupid Sherlock—you underestimate me. It hurts. It really does."

That couldn't be his only play. That was weak, especially for Sherlock. There had to be more to his plan.

"You have thirty seconds," Moriarty said.

"Or what?" Sherlock said. "You'll push me yourself?"

Moriarty laughed to himself. "Oh no. I'll kill John."

"No," Sherlock whimpered.

John stood up and moved out into the open space. He was not about to be sent out back to be put down. Hour upon hour of combat training came flooding back to him as he gazed out at the distracted guards. He wouldn't have much time but he had to do something.

In one fluid turn he swung his arm around his body and collided with one of the men's windpipes. Immediately he fell to the ground and gasped for air. John went for a right hook to the other man's kidneys but he was too slow. He was knocked to the ground by a well-placed hit to the jaw. John fell within inches of the other guard. Before he could be hit again, John grabbed the fallen man's gun and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"Stay down," the man growled.

John put his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay," he mumbled in agreement.

"Twenty!" Moriarty shouted.

John pushed himself across the ground to get a glimpse at Sherlock. He hadn't moved. He wasn't flinching.

"Fifteen."

Please, he pleaded. Do something.

Moriarty inched closer and closer to Sherlock. From his angle, John could see the gun peeking out of his pocket. But Sherlock couldn't.

"Ten."

John's eyes raced back and forth as he watched the two men face-off. Sherlock wasn't flinching. It was an ignorant attempt to call Moriarty's bluff. But John could see both of their hands and he knew that Sherlock was going to lose.

"Five."

If he didn't do something, Sherlock would die.

He leapt to his feet and pulled the gun from his jacket and aimed it at Moriarty.

"Stop!" he shouted.

Moriarty turned abruptly. "Where did you get that?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "John, what are you doing?"

"Step back!" John shouted at Moriarty.

Moriarty took two steps back with his hands raised. "Feisty one, aren't you?"

Sherlock looked confused but relieved.

"Now John, there's no reason for anyone to get hurt. Put your gun down."

He didn't even flinch. There was no way that he was going to lose whatever upper hand he had at this moment. "Absolutely not. Put your weapon the ground."

"I have no weapon," Moriarty said with a zen-like calm.

"You do," he shouted. "I saw it!"

"No reason to get hysterical."

John looked towards Moriarty's jacket pocket and hoped that Sherlock noticed.

"I'm not hysterical. Now lower your weapon. Now!"

John jutted the gun towards Moriarty. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock maneuver behind Moriarty.

It moved in slow motion. Sherlock reached towards Moriarty's jacket pocket and grabbed the gun. Moriarty spun and wrenched Sherlock's arm back behind his back. John heard the bone snap as Sherlock fell to the ground in pain. The gun dropped from Sherlock's hands and slid a few feet from where Moriarty stood.

John held his breath as Moriarty went down for his gun. There were seconds to react. John lifted his gun and aimed. Moriarty's fingers wrapped around the handle and his finger slipped in front of the trigger.

In one motion, Moriarty pulled the gun up and pulled it forward so it faced John. One blink and it could be over. Just do it.

He pulled back the trigger and the sound seemed so much louder than it normally did. John stood, shaken, and waited. Sherlock and Moriarty stood, stunned. After a few moments, Moriarty's face drained of color and he fell to the ground.

John had to laugh to mask the terror that still coursed through his body. "Is he dead?" John shouted.

Sherlock bent down and felt for a pulse. "Nearly," he said.

Nearly. What did that mean?

John took one step but he could take another. There was a gnawing pain in his side that seemed to grow by the second. He looked down at his shirt.

It was caked in blood.

"No," he muttered. "It can't be."

John reached for something to hold onto but he'd gone too far out. He fell to the ground.

"John!" Sherlock shouted.

All he could do was groan. He felt Sherlock roll him over and take stock of his wound.

"You've been shot," Sherlock said, clincally. "You're losing quite a bit of blood."

John took long deep breaths just to stay conscious.

In an almost childlike voice, Sherlock asked, "What should I do?

John smiled. "Just stay here."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock stood. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

John was fading fast and Moriarty was still alive.

He would have done it. Sherlock would have died for both of them and now it was John who would make that sacrifice and it was all his fault.

With a shaking hand he reached for his phone. He could barely dial the numbers for the emergency line. John's breathing began to wheeze and Sherlock could feel his heartbeat slow which each pump.

He whipped off his scarf and pressed it tight against John's wound. It wasn't much but it was all he could do. He'd never felt so vulnerable or so guilty. "It's going to be okay," he said quietly as he felt the fabric begin to saturate.

Moriarty groaned behind him. Sherlock turned his head just enough to see the man begin to rise. He had a hole in his suit jacket and blood that had dripped down his chest and on the ground around him. But yet, he was getting up.

Sherlock set John down carefully and prepared himself.

"Do not come any closer," Sherlock said.

Moriarty attempted to laugh but it came out in spurts as he gasped for air. "We'll see about that," he said. He winced and groaned in pain but he still tried to rise to his feet.

John's gun was an arm's reach away.

He'd never shot anyone.

He'd shot a gun but never at anyone. What if he couldn't do it? What if he missed?

John groaned again and his coloring grew grayer and paler. There wasn't much time. Sherlock grabbed the gun and spun around. He pointed it right at Moriarty's heart.

"Sherlock," Moriarty said as he pushed himself up to kneeling on one knee. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock squeezed the gun tighter in the hopes that the pressure would stop his hands from shaking so violently. "Doing what I should have done before."

"Don't you see?" Moriarty said.

"See what?"

"You and I…" Moriarty screamed in pain and fell against the side of a large metal locker. He was in agony but Sherlock didn't feel even an ounce of sympathy. He relished in the pain.

Sherlock stood and began to walk towards the incapacitated Moriarty.

"You and I what?" he snapped.

Moriarty clung to the locker and futilely tried to pull himself up but he was too weak. Every breath he took rattled in his chest. His movements were slow and pitiful. Sherlock kept the gun pointed at his heart but he didn't shake. He was doing this for John.

"...are alike." Moriarty looked up with lost shiftless eyes. There was something so vulnerable and childlike about him as he lay against the locker.

"We are not. Not in the least."

Moriarty smiled. "That's where you're wrong."

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't let Moriarty's words do any more damage. Every syllable from his mouth was toxic and poisonous.

"Do it," Moriarty said. "Kill me."

Sherlock looked at him, so exposed and frail. He was no longer a threat. In a matter of minutes he would be dead from the blood loss alone. The only reason to shoot him would be revenge. Vengeance for hurting John. Justice for nearly blowing them up. Retribution for all the people he had killed.

If anyone deserved death, it was Moriarty.

And that was precisely why he put the gun back in his pocket and walked away.

* * *

He heard the sirens ring down the street as Moriarty took his last breath. John wasn't far behind but there was still a chance. He held him tight against him and did everything in his power to slow down the blood loss. All he could do was hope that it was good enough.

Time swirled and slowed as the paramedics burst through the door and pulled him away from John. He felt large comforting hands lift him back and support him as he watched them shock John's heart and strap him to a gurney. They were there when he felt his feet give out underneath him as he tried to run after John but fell to the ground.

The after-effects of the drug Moriarty's men had given him were still in his system and, mixed with the adrenaline, sent him into a full anxiety attack. They wrapped him in a blanket, gave him water and somehow Lestrade materialized beside him.

For what felt like hours they sat on the roof in silence as the police marked up the roof for evidence and the coroner took Moriarty away.

"He's in surgery," Lestrade said finally.

Sherlock looked over and forced himself to focus on Lestrade's face just to regain his sanity. "How is he?"

Lestrade smiled. "Stable. They stopped the bleeding. They're very optimistic."

Sherlock put his head in hands and, for the first time since he was a boy, started to cry.

Lestrade put his arm around him and pulled him in tight. "You did fantastic."

Sherlock couldn't speak.

"You should be very proud."

* * *

John's room was dim and dark, just the way that Sherlock liked it. He'd spent every moment he could inside of it and, until John woke, he made it as comfortable as possible.

Six hours after he'd arrived in the emergency room, John finally opened his eyes. All he could do was groan but that was Sherlock's cue.

"John? How are you feeling?"

He groaned again but his color was back. He looked well, considering.

"You did it," Sherlock said.

John looked over, confused. "Did what?"

"Moriarty. He's dead."

"Dead?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes."

John sunk his head back in the pillow. "Good."

Sherlock moved his chair closer and sat back in the chair.

Good old John Watson had saved the day and he couldn't be happier.


End file.
